


sour green

by sultrygoblin



Category: The Stand (TV 2020)
Genre: F/M, No Sex, Pining, Premature Ejaculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29244504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sultrygoblin/pseuds/sultrygoblin
Summary: monster, monster under my bed, come out and play 'cause i need a friend
Relationships: Harold Lauder/Reader
Kudos: 11





	sour green

**Author's Note:**

> in which flagg uses you and harold to seduce each other to the dark side...

You'd never forget Harold Lauder. You'd taken a chance one night, sending a provocative photo when you'd texted late into the evening for the fourth night in a row and receiving nothing in return. Just those four letters. R-E-A-D. It doesn't surprise you. Neither does the way he ignores you the next time he comes into the bookstore. Why should it it? Rejection is something you were far too used to for your own good. But you never stopped hoping. How could you? Combing through his social media as if to find some crumb, some mention of you, metaphorical or otherwise Trying to catch his eye, trap him in a conversation, hoping for some small thing that said your ill-advised shot in the dark hadn't been for nothing. And then the world ended. 

**_You can have him_** **.**

What power he had to offer you that, you didn't know, only that it pulled at every string he needed it to. Every time you get a little restless, questioning his plan. 

**Soon, sweetling.**

Every time you had to watch him watch her and all you received from him were curt words and tight sentences that make his ire more than abundantly clear. 

**He’s yours**. 

It’s hard to believe because he never looks you in the eye and Franny is forever apologizing for him. If she knew that the terrible act of wrapping your hands around her throat had flitted through your mind on the few occasions you were too weak to stop it, she may not be so kind. 

**He just doesn’t understand yet.**

But you smile, you speak sweetly to him even if you know he won’t answer you with more than a nod or a shake of his head. It’s what you’re good at. Shoving down the anger, the hurt, the desperate need for him to just fucking look at you.

**But he will.**

Three words that haunted even your waking world. Eyes always ready for the moment when everything changed. When he looked at you and he knew. But it never came. Not even after she broke his heart, not even when they came to this place. In this house, huge and empty, just beside his. You could glance through the window and sometimes it felt as if you’d caught him looking at you. His form suddenly disappearing just as your eyes seemed to focus. Some part of your being has become aware of his, whether it’s your night time friend or so much time begrudgingly spent together, it’s as if you can feel his eyes. Not the odd sensation of being watched, the sixth sense every girl grows up with. It’s as if the barest tips of his fingers are pressing into you and every time you turn, his eyes shift. 

Is this it? These skittering glances, his short wave in the morning from his porch viewed around the edge of your curtain, these minor recognitions of your existence. Was this the longed for moment?

It can’t be. But it’s enough for you to be here in the early evening, knuckles rapping firmly against the wood and dropping to rub your sweaty palm against the denim of your thigh. It’s quiet, you consider leaving. Instead you try again, louder. With intent. This time there’s shuffling, a sudden sound from just a few feet behind the wood. But the knob doesn’t move, neither do the curtains.

**Just wait, sweetling.**

“Harold,” you don’t need to raise your voice, you know he’s there, “I’m not going away,” it’s the exact opposite of what you’re sure he wants, “So, why did you?”

It’s as if he’s trying to rip the door off the hinges, “Me?” he looks somewhere between incredulous and manic, “I thought you were my friend and you- you,” he groans, “How much did they pay you? I’ve always wanted to know.”

“Harold, I-” shaking your head as you tried to find the words, “They didn’t-” letting out a long sigh of frustration, “I-I wanted you to see me.”

You’re very aware that you’re still on porch and he seems to be too because he’s got a tight grip on your arm and he’s dragging you into the house, “You what?”

“I thought,” trying not to jump when the door slammed closed, realizing that for the first time in a long time; he’s looking at you, “We’d been hanging out a lot. And texting a lot. I just liked you is all and I thought you liked me.” 

A confession that feels bland and childish in the wake of the apocalypse but hung heavier in the air than Captain Tripps had ever seemed to manage. Your back presses against the door as he looms closer, coming to the sudden realization you had no plan for what came after displaying your vulnerability to him. What kind of man lurked behind the mask of Harold Lauder now?

“I liked those pictures,” a smirk curling the edges of his lips, “I liked them _a lot_ ,” the words making your face warm and your hoodie sweltering, “I kept them.”

There is no mistaking the implication. There’s only one reason to keep pictures like those around. You try to remember them now, knowing they must be seered into his mind, but it had been so long. You’d deleted them the next day, the text chain the day after, you never thought you’d regret it. But feeling his fingers wrap around the tiny zipper and pull it down pushes that worry away, knowing his gaze will fall to your fluttering, lace covered chest and the rest of your exposed skin.

“It’s different with you,” he murmurs, hands pressed against the door as he took the final surge forward, “It’s always been different with you,” his leg slotting between yours as he pressed himself against you, Stealing what little breath you were able to drag into your lungs, “Do you forgive me?”

**He’ll gobble you up.**

Your yes becomes a gasp, when he presses his lips against yours, hard and tight as if any moment you would vanish. What he lacks in technique he makes up for by the simple fact he’s kissing you. Your fingers dig into his styled hair, dragging your nails across his scalp and forcing a groan from him that is eye rollingly delicious against your exploring tongue. His hips buck once, twice, against you and he’s groaning against your mouth, his disappointment at himself bitter against your tongue. He tries to pull from you, you use the grip on his hair to stop any such nonsense.

“’m sorry,” his words slurred as they slipped across your spit soaked lips, “I never...”

“I never wanted it to be perfect,” words soft as you move your lips, smattering the entire column of his neck as he sighed and slumped against you, “I just wanted it to be you,” the implication of your words hang in the air, he might’ve been hurt if you own pain wasn’t stabbing right through him.

"Let's go upstairs."


End file.
